Wolf's Mane

Autumn had yet only just commenced, with a shy overtaking of Summer, clouds gently assuming heavier silhouettes and trees losing hold of their crispy golden leaves. It rained slightly during the evening, and would stop before the night arrived, leaving petrichor to patrol throughout the now empty streets, left behind by heat seeking people.
There is never any interest in cruising through dull and dreary landscapes, but I, for one, am delighted by the ill-look I find upon the naked oak-trees, as well as the touch of dark green presented by the dispersed pine trees. As a kid I recall making dens in their center, where I would stay for hours playing with my tail collection.
Father was a hunter, and every spring he would bring me tails he had stuffed since his winter gathering. I had rabit tails, fox tails, deer tails and one beautiful grey wolf's tail. With these I would play just as any girl plays with her dolls; the foxes would chase the rabits, and the wolf would hunt down the deer, unceasingly. As a young lad, my greatest dream was to one day see a grey wolf for myself.
And so, as every Autumn since my father's death, I would find myself needy for a stroll through the dismal woods. My house was only a couple of minutes away, and in no time would my lungs be freshly renewed by the earthy smell of the woods. Many nights have been stolen by the howling of a wolf in my dreams, only to wake up in a fright, to find myself with arms stretched out to the side, the left pushed up against a wall, the right holding my father's hunting hat, which I sacrilegiously kept on my bedside table. On other occasions I had found myself lying on the kitchen floor with a knife at hand, helplessy dreaming about killing the animal.
There was one sole time, at the entering of this Autumn, that the dream seemed to foist into real life.
I found myself in Dimrost, a forest that gently covers a great mountain with dense trees. My father had once taken me there, among many of my childhood hunting expeditions, hoping to show his son a real-life grey wolf. Alas, we did not find anything like it, and it seemed that in this dream I was having, we did in fact come across one.
Its hazel eyes were staring cryptically at me, an oblivious look upon its visage. The animal held itself in such an autocratic way, I felt an urge I could not control to gaze upon its splendour. Its grey fur had a strong, rough texture, with whiter tones in its pompous chest, blacker tones flowing from the scruff, down the spine, ending at the tip of the tail with a spear shaped trace.
It sensed me. It felt my presence - but it feared me not.
It was time. I needed to proceed with my endeavour, for I had acquired nothing but misfortune throughout the years. To my great dismal, I found myself tied between two Gordian knots: I craved to kill this beast; yet my soul pleaded to let the creature live. I felt I had the power, but upon it's distinction, had lost all the will. I remained displeased for several moments, the wolf remaining rooted to the spot, continuously aware of its surroundings.
I did not posess the fortitude to harm it, yet it seemed someone else did. The sound of crackling sticks left me startled, and I sensed I was not alone trying to get a grasp of the wolf's mane. Withing instances, I saw a figure appear, holding what seemed to be a shotgun.
I recall nothing more from that moment on, only that I lay somewhere soft, surrounded by bits of green, which with time straightened out into a cloak of pine trees. Warm blood oosed from my left shoulder, and the wolf had disappeared.
I have since then had the pleasure to see the sovereign animal permanently close by, watching me from a mount top whenever I choose to take a stroll in the woods.